The Onion Girl
by AerynSG1
Summary: I've seen your hand turn saintly on the radio dial . . ."


**The Onion Girl**

**By Aeryn**

It was spring, and she left as quickly and quietly as she could, making arrangements for the house to be sold and her belongings put in storage. She spoke only to those she absolutely had to, to officially shed herself of responsibility, and then got in the car and left, driving south.

She wasn't sure where she was going, but she'd know it when she got there. Somewhere along the way she traded her car in for an old battered Jeep, once bright yellow but now faded from the sun and the years.

She kept the radio on for the first half of the journey, flicking from station to station, the songs she heard pulling from her tears and joy and laughter – she remembered a lyric she'd heard once . . . 

"I've seen you 

Fire up the gas in the engine valves 

I've seen your hand turn saintly on the radio dial 

I've seen the airwaves 

Pull your eyes towards heaven . . ." 

and that was the way she felt; pulled towards heaven by the airwaves on the radio dial . . . then she turned the radio off, listening only to the wind. 

She kept the canvas top down, skin burning then browning in the healing heat of the sun, stopping at isolated camp sites only when she had to, sleeping briefly then leaving again – she had to get there, it was time, it was time. Finally, she found it, a tiny town with friendly people – artists, writers. A beautiful man with long black hair and sparking black eyes offered to rent her a place far out in the desert, a shack, for the most part, he warned her, but with everything she needed. Before heading out she bought paints, brushes, canvases and oils; she wasn't sure why, she just knew they were necessary. 

Then she was home. 

The first night she made a small fire outside of the tiny house and zipped herself up in a sleeping bag; staring up at the stars, feeling their pull, not as a scientist, not because of what she'd seen and done, not because of any potential threat they might pose – but because of their cold, glittering beauty, because of their call to her spirit. 

The next day she started painting, and the layers began to peel away. The first few were glaring orange and red, drawing out the sorrow and the anger of the death and destruction of friends, lovers, comrades, innocents . . . She wept endlessly, wrung out from the horror and the rage and heartbreak, painting furiously then sleeping for hours. 

She'd stare out at the desert, enveloped in its arid beauty, and every night she laid herself out under the stars, and every night she felt that nudge, that question, and she'd think no, no, not yet, not now. 

Something began to turn over inside her. 

Her senses were sharpened; the scent of the night almost harsh, the yip of coyotes in the distance a call to her heart, and when they began to howl her soul would howl with them, a combination of sorrow at what was lost and joy at what was to be had – nothing in this physical world or universe, but something beyond. 

She began to pray, silently. To whom, she didn't know; but she was compelled to express her rage, her gratitude, her sorrow and her joy – and she knew her prayers were heard and accepted without judgment, and her joy increased. And still the question came every night, and still her answer was no. 

Her paintings became less violent. They now portrayed the beauty of other things she'd seen; and done; and felt – the memories of the one with whom she'd been melded and whom she had absorbed within the very tissues of her body; her own memories of otherworldly landscapes and sunsets, the moments of happiness and laughter, and the stars. She was always painting the stars. 

And every night as she fell asleep, the question, the nudge came; and she kept saying no. 

After a year, she discovered she felt a contentment like none other. Serenity. She was happy, here, and her heart was once again whole. She painted. And as she stared up at the brilliance of the sky that night, she began to weep, not from sorrow, but from joy. Whatever true goddesses or gods who were responsible for this, all this sheer beauty, had taken her spirit and uncovered it, exposing it the light within and without. 

The coyotes cried, and she was raptured by the sound, not hearing sorrow this time, but revelation. And she knew she could live here or there, with or without, and this peace would never leave her. 

That night, when the question came, she said yes.

* * *

He was surprised when he first saw her. Hair long, brown silken skin, and a fire in her eyes that he'd never seen before. He was overwhelmed by what had happened to her; he'd been with her all along, every night following her on her journey, and was amazed at what she'd become. He wanted that, to be that, needed it even more than she had, and he knew she could show him the way and help ease the grief that never left him and reignite the spark inside that he'd let flicker and die.

After a week, he made a call.

"How is she?" Daniel asked. "

She's . . . beautiful," he answered.

"Is she coming home?"

"No." There was a pause.

"Are you?"

"No."

Another pause. "Jack . . . I'll see you both . . . when you're ready?"

"Of course."

A sigh at the other end, sadness and acceptance. "Be well," Daniel said.

"We will. Goodbye, Daniel."

He turned off the phone and flung it far into the desert, then returned to her to begin his own journey.

* * *

Lyrics: "True Dreams of Wichita," M. Doughty – Soul Coughing: Ruby VroomTitle borrowed with apologies from Charles de Lint. 


End file.
